Dance Dance Revolution

New Yorkers have a rhythm. There's a natural beat and pulse to the city that not only provides a driving energy, but also the city's soundtrack.

I was on the subway to Brooklyn one bright, beautiful Sunday and a man came on the subway in a black coat and sunglasses. We shared a pole and stoof facing each other as we rumbled our way downtown. I'm certainly used to being in close proximity to others after nine months here, but he stood quite close, like we knew each other and he was about to tell me a story. He had earbuds in and was obviously listening to music he enjoyed, because he started bopping his head slightly and swaying his hips. This movement became more and more exaggerated until it felt like he was trying to dance with me. I stole a glance with another female passenger and she laughed out loud. I think we looked ridiculous.

Dancing is certainly a part of life here. There are hundreds of dance clubs and it's often seen as a way to top off the evening. I was at a birthday party last month and a oman there claimed she had too much to drink. "I'm going to have to find a club and dance it off," she said. Most people would try to sleep off a buzz, but this is New York.

So while the instant dance party on the subway ride was a little awkward, I let it go. I did however, change cars the next stop.

Run run run...as fast as you can....

The New York City marathon was last weekend and it was a really big deal. I knew it was going to be big when they started putting up fencing in the park five days early - which, incidentally, confused the heck out of my dog. He kept getting stuck between the fences. I would call for him 25 yards ahead only to find him stuck and frustrated.

Another sign that this marathon was rather colossal was when my boss from the upper east side gym I teach at Sunday mornings e-mailed me that she had found me a sub. "You won't make it across the park," she wrote simply. She was right.

I actually saw the marathon in Seattle one year. I was trying, unsuccessfully to get around South Lake Union and they had closed off some of the streets. I remember there were cops directing traffic. As I waited for them to give me the go ahead to pass through the course, I watched the smattering of runners make their way. They looked tired. There were very few people cheering them on - maybe 1/2 a dozen - and the runners outfits of white t-shirts and running shorts were muted and unassuming. It was actually a little quiet.

This is not the marathon scene in New York. The marathon scene in New York consists of waves of thousands upon thousands of runners from all over the world making their collective way through the city. They wear bright colors and costumes, they paint their faces and wave their flags. Marathon runners in New York write their names in bright, decisive strokes across their chest so when people cheer them on, it can be on a first name basis.

Along the path of the marathon, people bring water and snacks to distribute to the runners. Bands play upbeat, energizing music and the entire atmosphere is the unlikely combination of block party and torture chamber. I saw runners limping along the sidelines with pained expressions and runners with bright red, flushed cheeks that looked like they were in the middle of a good cry. Some runners made it look easy, but most, at mile 22, looked ready to give up.

Marathons in general seem a little insane. You don't run the full distance until the day of the race because of the toll it takes on your body. You have to grease down your chest to avoid chaffing of such severity you will bleed through your shirt. Blisters are guaranteed. No part of your body comes away from a marathon undamaged. Marathons are destructive. Yet in New York, the demand to get into the NYC Marathon is so great, there's a lottery. The "winners" get to participate in 26+ miles of hell.

Certainly it's a monumental achievement - a triumph of will. I suppose if forced to do one, New York wouldn't be a bad place to do it. I was talking to my brother about the city the other day and he said when you first leave the airport "the energy of New York City hits you right in the face." So it would be preferable to attempt a marathon in a city with such innate, pulsing energy as opposed to the sweet calm of a place like Seattle. But I don't know.

I think in the years to come my New York City Marathon participation won't involve pinning a number to my chest, but rather cheering on those who do.

Meet the Parents

New York and I haven’t been together very long. We’re still in the infatuation stage where everything is fresh and exciting. We have that kind starry eyed adoration where you overlook the flaws of smelly garbage and crowded subways and only see the sparkle of the Crysler Building – the storybook beauty of Bethesda Fountain. I’m gitty – I’m smitten – I’m head over heels. I’m falling in love.

So you can understand my heightened anxiety when my father came to visit. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted New York to be on its best behavior so my dad would love this city as much as I did. I carefully planned a series of events that would show off New York in the best light. I arranged trips to the Union Square farmers market, Broadway and the Public, the canine gathering on the great lawn and the jewel that is the 92nd Street Y. I had dressed my boyfriend New York in his best duds. I made him shave, shower and cover up his tattoos. I was ready to show him off. New York was ready to impress.

Unfortunately, after a few short hours, the New York blemishes started to show. It continued to be crowded on the subway (even on a Sunday – unheard of) and confusing to a fault (was that 45th and 6th or 46th & 5th?) and loud, abrasive and generally…overwhelming. It continued to be New York.

When a man peed in front of my dad and me on E 16th, one of the most charming areas of the city, I had to restrain myself from putting my hands on my hips, pulling my shoulders back and saying: “Come ON New York! Pull it together!” And then, under my breath, in a fierce whisper: “You’re embarrassing me.”

I’ve always been like this with New York, especially with people experiencing the Big Apple for the first time. I long for them to love it. I know it shouldn’t matter to me so much, but somehow it does. I remember coming to New York with a group of ladies a few years ago, many of whom hadn’t been here, and I was struck with anxiety right before the wheels of our plane touched down. I felt responsible for their enjoyment. It made no sense, but somehow I felt like a strange matchmaker. I wanted to create a love connection.

The truth is, there’s nothing I can do to make people fall in love with a city. I just need allow the events to unfold naturally. Whether it’s my dad or a group of ladies, they will have their own experience and reaction to New York, regardless of what I do or say or plan. They don’t have to love New York simply because I do. It’s just like the attraction between lovers. Sometimes it’s there and sometimes it’s not – an outsider is powerless in whether the affair heats up or turns cold. It’s a matter of chemistry.

So New York showed its grit during my dad’s visit this weekend. It showed the dirt under its fingernails, the grease in its hair, its tendency to speak a little too loud and chew with its mouth open. Although I felt New York was on display, New York absorbed my father with the “take it or leave it” attitude it’s had since the days of the Dutch. The good news is that despite its flawed appearance, my Dad, like so many others, was drawn in.

Together, the three of us had a great time. It wasn’t perfect…and that was perfect.

An Emergency

Last weekend, I found myself in a New York City emergency room. When I realized where I was going and what was happening, I immediately got a sinking feeling deep in my stomach. A New York City emergency room?!? There were going to be flying gurneys filled with moaning gun shot victims, gang members meddling about, doctors running through the crowded corridors with blood splattered on their scrubs.

I need 30 milligrams of Tatianam Expositus….Stat!

Men hunched over in chairs with a knife protruding from their torsos.

We’re going to lose him!

A woman in labor running through the lobby with her cabbie, recently befriended amid quips, romantic banner, and heavy breathing on the cab ride to the hospital.*

Clear!

Weary nurses pulling a double shift…or is it a triple shift….peering across the fluorescent soaked room.

Basically, I was anticipating pandemonium. Pandemonium is not what I got.

My friend and I were at a show Sunday afternoon. Prior to curtain, she commented on a sore back, so I wasn’t surprised when an hour into the production she started shifting slightly, leaning forward and back in her chair. A while later, she leaned over and whispered: “I have to go.”

“Do you want me to go with you,” I asked in a hush. She nodded and we took off. The usher found us immediately and quickly led us out of the dark auditorium. My friend started to black out as we moved quickly through a secret hallway behind the risers and she crumpled onto the floor. At that point, I knew this was much bigger than just a back issue.

When we got into a little more light, I saw that she was shaking with the chills and her lips were a light shade of blue. We quickly decided that this was something that wasn’t going to just go away, and we needed an expert to check her out. So that’s how foud myself at the emergency room in the east village on a Sunday afternoon. And how I found myself with that pit in my stomach, anticipating all the hospital commotion primetime television has to offer.

AS we made our way through the double-doors marked “emergency room,” we were greeted by two clean-cut, smiling security guards who directed us to the left. There were no wounded thugs lining the wall. No running doctors. No yelling. It was as quiet as a library. They were calm and pleasant. This was the emergency room? Where was George Clooney? Zach Braff? Where was the drama? The drama had left this emergency room long ago.

They checked us in, took my friend’s temperature and moved us into a private room. A nurse came by followed shortly by a gum-snapping doctor and two back-up singer residents. The three of them declared my friend had a fever and prescribed a week’s dose of antibiotics.

So here’s the deal with a New York City hospital: The halls are empty and clean. The people are calm, cordial, and for the most part, extremely helpful. We were out with a diagnosis and prescription in under 60 minutes.

So it wasn’t the experience I expected out of a New York City emergency room, and that’s probably a good thing. While it would make for a dreadfully boring episode of ER, it made an efficient, effective healing resource for my friend. And that’s all that really mattered.

* I may have seen Look Who's Talking a few too many times.....

Arts that go "BAM" in the Night

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see my first dance performance in New York City. New York has a plethora of dance companies and spaces. Dance is an integral part of the arts scene. Generally, I enjoy dance as a participant more than a spectator, but I was excited about the evening. A small group of us accompanied my friend to BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music) to see Pina Bausch's Vollmond (Full Moon). My friend worked at BAM for several years, so I was also excited to see her old stomping grounds.

After a quick bite to eat, we arrived to the theatre right before show time. BAM is located the heart of Fort Green in a trendy area of Brooklyn. The outside of the building is unassuming grey concrete, not unlike a high school. Once you step out of the elevator and into the theater however, the imposing beauty hits you like a wave. The walls of bright gold and deep red are lined with the delicate, intricate detail of 100-year-old craftsmanship.

We were in the upper balcony in a packed house on opening night. From our vantage point, we were able to absorb this beautiful theatre in all its glory. The lights dimmed and the dance began with two muscular men running frantically around the circumference of the stage. A high pitched synthesizer pumped through the theatre. In the center of the stage was a large, fake rock that stood two stories high and was a deep, charcoal grey. As the show went on, it started to rain on stage. The downpour fell among the dancers, creating a slow moving river that flowed under the giant rock. The 16 dancers cascaded through the water with their overblown, sweeping movements. They leapt, convulsed, and sashayed around the stage as their costumes grew wetter and clung to their taut bodies.

A female dancer dressed all in white commanded the stage for seven minutes in an impressive solo.

A man leapt from the top of the rock into the river below. Women swam in the water on their bellies as their long dressed flowed gracefully around them.

An older lady with hair of bright frizz periodically took center stage and yelled in her scratch of a voice about the joys of booze and men.

The show ran 2 ½ hours and while the dancers were athletic and energetic, throwing themselves into the piece with abandon–overall, the show was a little disjointed and confusing.


And long.


It was very long.


Afterwards, we discussed the art scene in New York City. There are so many performances and productions going on at any given night, the sheer quantity of artistic outpouring can be overwhelming. Because this outpouring shows no sign of diminishing, one has to assume that there’s an audience in this city to support it. But you have to wonder how many of these patrons are sitting in these dark auditoriums because they want to be there and how many are there because they feel like they should be. How many use the theatre to create his or her self-identity?

Everyone says they love to travel, but most people, when they travel, go to a secluded beach, lie in the sun and sand and read novels while sipping boozy candy cocktails. So really, they love to relax – they don’t necessarily love to travel.

Everyone claims to love the indie music scene, but how often are you at a show on a Wednesday night, standing in a dark room with other hipsters, waiting for the show to start, and longing to be in the comforts of your home?

When people visit large cities, museums are often the first thing on their list. They simply must go to the Louvre, the Prado, the Met….but museums are often overwhelming. And boring. Museums are often too big. You end up glazing over the art and worrying more about your sore feet than the artistic expression hanging on the walls.

So maybe the arts are (at times) more about reputation and less about experience. But, I’m still glad that there’s a demand to support this artistic supply.

New York is a city built on commerce. Making money efficiently is in the roots of this town, from the flow of the harbor to the structure of the streets. It’s been this way since the days of the Dutch and continues to thrive on Wall Street. Without the arts to soften the edges of this tangled concrete, it would be a very difficult place to live indeed. The arts provide the creativity, the frivolity, the humanity of New York – and whatever their motivation, I’m glad people continue to frequent the arts as much as they do. I will certainly continue to be one of them.

Hot "Child" in the City

This city is competitive. It moves fast. Bars are open until four. Restaurants serve $14 martinis that could double as hot tubs. Hundred of clubs, trendy wine bars, and strip clubs dot the streets. It’s almost as though the city has a large “Adults Only” sign at its entrance. In reality, however, that’s not the case. Kids live here too!

I was reminded of this on Friday night at the Armory, a monstrous structure that looms over midtown east. The armory is so expansive it’s almost overwhelming in a city that constantly forces you to shrink, squeeze and hunch to fit into smaller and smaller spaces. It’s so large in fact, they installed an entire carnival there over the weekend. The carnival had a large slide, rotating swings, food booths, a tiny magician tent and an enormous, flashing Ferris Wheel that loomed over the activities in the center of the room.

Usually, Friday activities for me involve standing around in a crowded room with fellow 25-42-year-old professionals dressed in black and sipping alcoholic beverages out of sparkling, over-sized glassware. This Friday evening involved very few people taller than my waist. To be fair though, I was wearing heels.

These little “whipper-snappers” screamed, squealed and ran around the expansive room with abandon. They flew down the slide, watched the magician with wide-eyed wonder, and periodically stood still just long enough for their parents (or nannies) to snap their picture. Admission to the carnival was only $5 – so it felt like every kid from Manhattan and the Bronx was there. It was an abrupt reminder that kids share this city too.

When I started to take note however, I noticed kids everywhere. A handful of kids take the subway to school in the morning with their parents. I’m not sure where they go and I don’t see them every day (some mornings I’m running a little later than others), but they always get off on 79th street. Their over-sized backpacks and lunch boxes stand out in the mass of briefcases and power ties. I started to notice other evidence of children in Manhattan as well.

Nearly every weekend you’ll see a frazzled, exhausted mothers on the train with a sleeping toddler in a stroller. Manhattan generally is not built for strollers. The sidewalks are narrow and packed with people, and the subways only have elevators at express stops, so bringing strollers into and out of the subway almost always takes two people. Doors are narrow and heavy and have you ever tried to take a stroller through a rotating door? Me neither, but it sounds like a bitch. Even if you’re willing to take on the challenge of a stroller in Manhattan, some places just won’t allow you. The pizza place next to my building has the largest dining area in the five boroughs (I’m convinced). Even they have a sign on the front door that specifically prohibits strollers. Trying to navigate a stroller in a typical Manhattan restaurant is impossible so a sign is unnecessary. It would be easier to bring an unruly St. Bernard with you to dinner.

A colleague of mine just had a daughter last week. I was shocked to learn yesterday that he lives my neighborhood. “The upper west side,” I asked, when he told me. “But you just had a child!” He apparently is ready to take the stroller challenge head on.

I have a good friend who was born and grew up mere blocks from my current residence. In the past few weeks, I’ve met some of his elementary, middle and high school classmates. So I know these native Manhattanites exist, it just took a random Friday carnival for me to put the reality of their childhood in context. They didn’t ride a yellow school bus, they rode the nine train. While I took 8th grade Social Science, they enjoyed classes in philosophy, origami, and current events (where the required reading included the New York Times. In eighth. grade.). They didn’t have a backyard to throw the ball around, but they did have access to a 90 acre park. They didn’t get a drivers license when they turned 16 (many of them still don’t know how to drive) because they’ve been hailing cabs since they could hold out their hand. Instead of Cheerios, they enjoyed bagels for breakfast. Their building blocks likely created Maslows Hierarchy of Needs. Instead of movies, they went to the theater. I saw a little boy at Gatz last weekend who liked he was about 8 years old. The 2:00 PM show let out about 9:00 PM. If I was 8, it would be torture to sit in a dark theatre for seven hours. Heck, as an adult I was dubious and I dropped some serious cash to do it! So native New Yorkers are out there. They grow up in a forrest of concrete. Their parents tackled the challenge of strollers, private schools, and precocious dispositions to successfully raise children in Manhattan.

As I grow older myself, it’s encouragig that this opportunity exists. I was in a marketing training this week and the instructor presented a case study of baby formula. He showed a series of pbaby pictures and talked about the psychographic segmentation of women with children. The instructor, raising his voice over the ticking of my biological clock, revealed that every woman in his example lived in New York City. I smiled to myself. Yes, it would be a huge pain in the ass, but having a family in the city was possible. I had a case study, my friend, the subway school kids and a midtown carnival to prove it.

Footnotes: I wrote this blog yesterday and when I got home last night, I had the movie "Babies" waiting for me in the mail from Netflix. Ha ha, Universe, you're hilarious.

Rules of the Rail

The true, accurate, genuine, bona fide, unofficial rules of the New York Subway System

The following is a list of ten rules to be applied when utilizing the New York public subway system. Infringement of said rules will result in no punishment or law enforcement or retribution of any kind, but will officially label you as a “douche” by fellow riders on said Subway system. These rules are technically unauthorized and unsanctioned, but all readers and riders should make every attempt to abide by these rules at all times when riding the subway. Please note: these rules can be altered, enhanced, augmented, modified, amended, revised, reworked, and are subject to change without notice or warning:

Rule 1:
Subway traffic flow will always be initiated with exiting passengers followed by entering passengers.

Amendment 1A: Riders of the New York Subway (hereby referred to as the “subway”), should avoid pushing into the subway prior to the full and entire exodus of outgoing passengers.

Amendment 1B: Those exiting the subway should do so quickly and efficiently. Lollygaggers will not be tolerated and will result in said lollygaggers being stepped on and walked over from incoming subway traffic. If it’s your stop, do not pause, take a breather, suspend, wait, or halt: get off damn the train.

Rule 2:
Upon entering the train, incoming passengers should move to the center of the train. Even if it appears you are the last person on the train, assume you are not. Someone will inevitably jump on the train after you, nano-seconds before the doors close, causing a domino effect of shoving and teeter-tottering bodies and will cause said subway doors to open and close 7-8 times sequentially, thereby delaying the departure of the train. You are never the last person on the train. Never.

Amendment 2A: Moving to the center of the train means physically moving away from the doors. This will likely mean standing in front of a seated passenger. That’s okay. Don’t be afraid. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.

Amendment 2B: Headphones do not exempt you from Rule 2. While headphones (or “i-buds” as the kids call them these days) have the potential to hinder your ability to hear what’s going on around you, headphones actually have no affect on your visual competence or your capacity to notice that someone behind you is trying to get on the train. Headphones may make it feel like you’re somewhere else, but you know you’re on a train. Make room for the person behind you.

Rule 3:
Under no circumstances should a rider lean, hug or otherwise embrace the holding pole* thereby warranting the pole useless for other riders. The pole is meant to be shared.

Amendment 3A: Respect the holding pole. Don’t sneeze into your hand and then grab the pole. Come on! No one likes a snotty pole.

Amendment 3B: If you have children, don’t let them lick the pole. Note that all riders do not adhere to Amendment 3A – so – eeeww….

Clause 3B1: As a general rule, it’s good to avoid letting your kids tongue anything on the subway – the poles, the seats, the windows – kids should keep their tongues in their mouths while on the train.

Clause 3B2: Clause 3B1 also applies to adults.

Rule 4:
The following is prohibited during rush hour:
- Over-sized luggage
- Bicycles
- Walkers
- Mariachi Bands
- “Let’s Go Europe” backpacks
- Break-dancers**
Rush hour is about transporting as many bodies as possible in a condensed time period. One bike = 3 bodies. It’s simple math. If you have a bike, perhaps you should ride it.

Amendment 4A: In the rare occasion where a seat is available during rush hour, it is mandatory that the nearest passenger must sit. An empty seat = a potential rider whose been left behind on the platform and will have to wait 3-5 minutes for the next train which could mean the difference between a clean carpet and a dog emptying his bladder because he just couldn’t hold it that last 90 seconds. Basically, it comes down to doggy pee. So take the seat because that stuff is hard to get out.

Rule 5:
Yes, Amendment 4A spoke of “taking the seat,” but Rule 5 is about giving up your seat. The following is an official chart of seat hierarchy:

- Elderly Female***
- Pregnant Female****
- Child with crutches
- Adult with crutches
- Elderly Male
- Adult with stroller *****
- Child (male or female) under 12
- Adult Female (able-bodied)
- Adult Male (able-bodied)
- Male (16-18)******

Rule 6:
If you choose to tell your story about being homeless and having a wife / husband with a deadly disease and having three children under the age of three and a sweet yellow lab with one eye who needs doggy treats and an aging mother suffering from Alzheimer’s aloud to your fellow subway passengers and you say something like “anything will help…money….food…” and a good-hearted subway user from the west coast gives you a perfectly healthy, unopened, delicious, pecan flavored granola bar, you can, under no circumstances reject the granola bar. This is prohibited. You must take the granola bar. It doesn’t matter if it is the tenth granola bar you’ve received that day. You asked for food and must take the food. A “thank you” would also be appreciated.

Rule 7:
Your music is awesome. It is so awesome you want to play it really loud. If I’m in the next car however, and can hear the music on your i-pod, it’s probably a little loud. Listen to your music. Love your music. But don’t share your music…it’s yours! Other passengers don’t want to hear it.

Rule 8:
Eating on the subway is permitted but should be limited to contained, compact and easily edible food. All foods with excessive crumbs, globs, girth, sauce, or packaging should be avoided. This is rule is subject to interpretation and passengers should use their best judgment. Prohibited foods include, but are not limited to the following:

- Falafel
- Over-sized Philly Cheesecake sandwiches where th e cheese oozes out the back
- Crumb Cake
- Spaghetti
- Juicy, over-sized, hamburgers
- Anything that takes both a knife and fork to consume

Amenment 8A: Foods with pungent odors should also be avoided whenever possible.

Rule 9:
In a crowded subway, if you are closest to the door and the train comes to a stop, you must temporarily step off the train to let people off. You will be guaranteed premium access back on the train once the exiting passengers have departed.

Amendment 9A: If you are waiting for a train and see someone step off the train to let exiting passengers off - you must let them get back on the train before stepping on yourself. Stepping in front of them to enter the train will lead to automatic douche status.

Rule 10:
Do not urinate on the train.*******

* At time of publication, the author of this publication could not think of a better term for “holding pole.” The “holding pole” is the stripper-like pole in the center of the train that exists for people to hold onto so they don’t fall down during the general turbulence of subway travel.

** It’s all fun and games until someone gets kicked in the face….which I’ve seen happen. Let’s keep the break-dancing where it belongs –1986.

*** Less defined by age and more by fragility. If she could play a sweet old grandmother in a black and white movie, she gets the seat, hands down. On the subway culture, elderly ladies rein supreme. They should always have a seat. No exceptions.

****If the pregnancy is questionable, use caution. Giving up your seat to an overweight woman could be offensive to her and create an uncomfortable ride for the person sitting next to her.

***** Please note: The stroller MUST have a child. If the stroller is carrying groceries, clothes, or other miscellaneous items, this person should not get a seat and should not be riding during rush hour (see Rule 4).

****** It may not be fair, but teenage boys are almost always standing on the train. Don’t shed too many tears though, they have the metabolism to eat six meals a day topped off by a liter of Coke and jumbo pack of king-size Oreos (double stuffed!) without gaining an ounce – so the cosmic karma all shakes out.

*******This may seem like an obvious one, but apparently it's not. Urinating on the train creates a phenomena called "stinky car", which, not unlike "unair-conditioned car" in the summer, leads to a mass exodus of passengers at every stop running frantically for the next car over. Also, pee on the train runs down the length of the car, so no one is safe from its path. Pee on the train is just no fun for anyone.



Thank you for taking the time to read these 10 rules and regulations in regards to the New York City Subway. If we can all follow these ten simple rules, subway transit will run smoother and every ride will be a little more pleasant for us all.

Soooo Sleepy

The other day I got to work groggy and bleary-eyed and by accident turned off my computer instead of turning it on. As I sat down in my vinyl office chair, these words popped up on my screen:
Monitor Going to Sleep
I’ve never been more jealous of my monitor.

There’s a nasty side effect from the fun and festivities of New York City, a little something called sleep depravation.
I’m a sleeper. In Seattle, I regularly got 9-10 hours of sleep a night and that was with a 6:00 AM aerobics class. I often went to bed when it was still light outside, not unlike a toddler. I always felt refreshed, replenished, and downright bushy-tailed.
In New York, I struggle to fall asleep in the “PM” and I still wake up at 5. I did some rough calculations and figured I got about 40 hours of sleep last week. 40 hours. Over 7 nights. That’s just not enough. I’m not only of these people like Albert Einstein or Bill Clinton who both claimed they only needed 90 minutes – 3 hours of sleep a night. I happen to enjoy…and need…a good night sleep.
I’m not sure what the solution is at this point. Every night it seems I’m staying out until 9 or 10 or 11, and when I get home, the energy of the evening stays with me and I can’t even think of sleep. So I end up texting friends (many of whom conveniently reside in a time zone three hours earlier) or writing (like…right now) or reading or staring at the ceiling of my tiny apartment or planning my outfit for the next day or painting my toenails or surfing the web for more fun things to do in New York or well, or just about anything other than sleep. Eventually my energy starts to mellow a bit an my eyes start to feel heavier and around midnight or one I finally brush and floss, take the dog for one more walk around the block, and pull out my bed. I’m out seconds after my lights, and the alarm comes like a cruel joke moments later.
The pulse and drive and stimulation of New York allow me to keep up this pace. In the midst and mist of Seattle with its low grey cloud and easy-going disposition, I would be napping under my desk at work by noon. Remarkably, I generally make it through the day fairly well. My serious caffeine addiction helps me along, but really I just wake up excited to be in New York, even when it seems like the night has passed in a blink. That excitement carries me through to the next day…and the next. I don’t think I’m the only one who lives on this general lack of sleep, either. Whenever I reach out to friend at 11, 12, 1 in the morning, they almost always hit me back. In the office, I notice frequent yawns and droopy eyes. When I was talking to a New Yorker the other day about this, he confirmed my suspicions. “I don’t feel like I’ve slept more than give hours a night since I moved here,” I told him. “Yeah,” he replied. “And you won’t. There’s just too much to do to spend time sleeping.”
The most extreme example of this presented itself on a recent Saturday night. A friend invited me to visit an upper eastside bar since he was going to be bartending. I’d been having a pretty full day with a concert at the MET and a lovely meal complete with corn bread and green beans* in Harlem, and a little frat-esque party in the east village, so I was thinking I would only be at this bar an hour or so before heading home and calling it another successful day in NYC.
I ended up closing the bar down.
In Seattle, this would mean 2:00 AM, which is still late, but in New York closing the bar down means 4:00 AM. And if you’re closing the bar, you’re going to need to get waffles after you leave, especially if you’re name is Erin Gilbert. So, this meant I climbed into bed just before 5:00 in the morning, and actually was starting to fall asleep when my alarm went off. Some people may see this as a sign. A sign that perhaps this late night / early morning living is getting a little out of control and perhaps yours truly should think about putting more value on hitting the hay. Perhaps.
I still believe that if you truly want to experience all New York has to offer and keep your day job, there’s simply very little time for sleep. The old expression appears to be true. New York is truly the city that never….zzzzzzzz…..

**I'm not a huge fan of soul food, but the green beans are out of this world. I think they're about 2/3rds butter and 1/3rd green bean. Outstanding.

Queen of Pole

This is a rather long preamble, but I feel the need to explain how I ended up at a pole dancing class last Friday. Alright….now you’re reading!

My friend Ian from work was bartending at the Black Fin on the east side Friday night. The Black Fin not only had a crazy happy hour, but if you handed $25 to the lovely lady at the door, she would give you a wrist band that would allow you to drink as much as you could until 10:00. Some people from work were planning on taking the challenge, and I was going to join them. My plan however, was that before the evening out, I was going to take a dance class in SOHO. I knew this woman Denise would be there (as she was every Friday night) and I wanted to “accidently” run into her and invite her to the Black Fin. This is certainly not as gay as it sounds (and this is a subject for future blogging – how can you make female friends without feeling like you’re coming onto them? I haven’t figured it out. Ask them for their number? Say you enjoy “hanging out with them”? Gay gay gay….)
I met Denise at an Equinox audition a few weeks back and we quickly hit it off. She was hilarious, full of energy, and we exchanged e-mails. We wrote back in forth and ran into each other at the gym a few times since, and I knew we could be friends in a more social – less “let’s –get-our-sweat-on“ environment. Friday night was my in. Alas, it was not meant to be.

Rubin, my dog walker, called me Friday morning and said he would not be able to walk Taetu. He had a last minute graduation (what graduation is last minute? I have no idea), and wouldn’t be able to come.

No fear. I was used to swinging home to take the dog out before going out myself. I did have to change the location of my dance class, however, so I looked up the schedule of my neighborhood gym and found a pole dancing class at 7:00. An hour there, and I could still head downtown to meet up with everyone and get my drink on…plus I would be armed with stories from pole dancing! I was in.

So this is how I ended up at my very first pole dancing class. Here’s what I thought. I thought it would be like the time I took “strip tease” in Seattle. It would be a sexy hip hop class where people thought they were being “edgy”, but really were just getting their heart rate up. Oh my God how wrong I was.

I showed up in my black pants and tank top thinking I looked pretty good. My hair was down, my pants were hip huggers…I felt sexy…I felt sexy that is until I stepped in the classroom and saw 19 other women in their underwear. “She’s exaggerating,” you’re probably thinking. “They were merely scantily clad.” Nooo…..they were in their underwear. Bra and panties. The variations ran from modest (boy short panties and sports bra) to not-so-modest (push-up bra and thong). The lights were dim and I wear glasses so at first I thought I was seeing things, but no…this was a Victoria’s Secret catalogue come to life.

I took the lead from others in the class and grabbed a mat. I started to stretch already dreading what was to come. The instructor entered. He (not a type-o…the only man in the room) wore a Crunch tank-top and tight shorts that left little to the imagination. “Okay,” he said to the class, “we’re going to warm up for about 20 minutes and then we’ll get started. Just follow me.”

He didn’t have a mic and didn’t really cue. Instead he would gyrate and grind on the floor and we would attempt to follow. I tried not to look to my right or left and concentrate on following the instructor. I soon realized this was kind of loose class. You didn’t have to do exactly what he was doing, and instead could “improvise” as you saw fit. I was not having it. There would be no improvising from this one. This was a gym for God’s Sake!

After the 20 minutes, he told everyone to stand by a pole. The problem was, there were 9 poles and 21 women. We were going to have to share. I was mortified. It was bad enough to be the “slow learner” in the corner by myself, but to have two other more experienced dancers wait for me to finish before they could take their turn. This all made it much, much worse. After our fearless leader instructed us to head to a pole, several of the women broke out their shoes. Oh yes…it was not bad enough they had floss up their rear, they now had on 7” platform shoes. This was getting ridiculous…(and why wasn’t every heterosexual man in Manhattan at this gym? I still haven’t figured that one out).

Our instructor stood in front of the room and demonstrated the first routine. There were 4-5 moves in quick succession. He showed us once, asked if we all got it, and I was the only one who didn’t enthusiastically nod my head. This was going to be trouble.

The first woman in our group went and she totally got it. She spun around the pole, circling her pelvis and whipping her long, blonde hair, and somehow ended up on the floor on all fours. She practiced a couple times and turned to me, smiling sweetly, “do you want to give it a try?” I think at that point I actually gulped. There was nothing I wanted to do less than give it a try, but I placed my hand on the pole and started to spin around.

I did not hide the fact that this was my first pole dancing class, so the instructor came by frequently. After the first routine, we were onto more advanced moves – climbing the pole to the ceiling. Okay – at this point I will give both of my readers a little “word to the wise.” You cannot climb a stripper pole in pants. It can’t be done. Obviously, this was my first pole class. Everyone in the room knew that when I showed up in my hip-huggers. When we started climbing…I had to remove my pants. I didn’t feel as self-conscious as you would think. I actually felt more out of place fully dressed…like wearing a turtleneck in a sauna.

So now I was in a tank top and my (thankfully clean, black, and modestly sexy) panties and ready to climb the pole. While the object was to “fan kick” our way up to the top, I simply grabbed the pole with both hands and muscled my way up. It was not the sexiest move, but everyone in my group was impressed. “You have great muscles,” one of the women said, “what do you do to workout?”

“Obviously, not pole dancing,” was my reply.

The instructor was, simply put, amazing. Every time he demonstrated our next routine, I would watch him with my jaw dropped. He had the grace, pose, and pure strength that made the most gravity-defying moves look effortless. The women in the class followed suit. Dressed in their prettiest panties and highest of heels, they swung, leapt, and twirled around the pole with grace. After an hour, I was ready to high tale it to the closest stiff cocktail.

The class lasted 90 minutes…..nine….zero….and the grand finale was a chance for us to “improve” on the pole for three minutes. Yay! What a treat! I was trying to figure out how to get out of there, and watching the Black Fin slip through my fingers, when I tried my hardest to dance “sexy” around the pole to an old Bon Jovi song. Really? Bon Jovi? Between my awkwardness and the smooth sounds of aging New Jersey rock stars, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

After our final stretch and mingling around to say goodbye to my gracious (and patient) partners, I was out of the gym at close to 9:00. There was no way I could change, grab the 2, and get down to the Black Fin in time to meet my co-workers. I ended up calling it a night and having a glass of wine with Taetu. To be honest, embarrassing myself on a pole for an hour and half with 20 nearly naked women was enough excitement for one evening. I was ready to hang low…and vowed never to return.

The Outsiders

I took my first business trip last week. I joined 11 co-workers and we boarded a plane bound for Jacksonville, Florida. It was a three-day, two-night break from the cold, rainy weather plaguing New York the week prior.
This was my first trip as a “New Yorker,” and it was pretty funny. First of all, New Yorkers where a lot of black. In New York, you don’t really notice, but when you visit somewhere like Florida, where the general population is adorned in various shades of pastel, our look suddenly appears rather somber. We definitely stand out. People probably assumed we were either from New York or on our way to a funeral.
People’s reaction to “New York” is interesting as well. As a group, when a local asked us where we were from, the “New York” came from a representative like a short, staccato gunshot. People would retract immediately, put off from the “big city folk” in their fine town.
“Wheah ah yoah awfices,” they would ask with a smile, the vowels rounded with their southern cadence.
“New Yowak,” would be the reply, big as Manhattan itself. In the city, this would not seem out of place, but out of context it was like taking a bullhorn into a library. As a group our tendency was to intimidate and alienate.
We all took shuttles to the conference center directly from the airport and when the day was done, we had to figure out how to get back to the hotel. We stood in a group, looking at each other for the answer.
“They must have cabs,” Denise said, “let’s just flag one down.”
We waited a while to see the familiar yellow of a taxi service, but nothing turned up.
We started to head over to the city's lone monorail, when Michael suggested that we just walk. That's what he ended up doing. It was a healthy walk, but nothing a typical New Yorker couldn’t handle. New Yorkers are so accustomed to convenient public transportation, they become a bit lost when such a system doesn’t present itself.
When I checked into the hotel, the clerk asked for my office address, since that’s how the reservation was filed. I rattled off “535 5th Ave.”
“5th Avenue,” he said admiringly, “that must be an exciting street to work on!”
I smiled back at him; thrilled that I lived in such an iconic environment. Seeing New York through the local’s eyes made me feel like I lived on a movie set.
We did our best to live up to our reputation as brassy and rude. The second night, we all had dinner in a group and things got loud. In New York, the tendency to crescendo throughout the night is a necessity since wherever you’re enjoying dinner is bound to be crowded and voices naturally raise throughout the evening. In Jacksonville, however, it was just obnoxious.
“I would rather poke out my eyes than live in this hell hole,” someone in our group said in front of the waiter. I wanted to hide under the table.
The three days in Jacksonville were fine. The weather was beautiful, the people were friendly, the air was undoubtedly cleaner, but after the 72nd hour I was anxious to get back to feeling good in my black attire, talking a little louder, and returning to the faster pace of Manhattan. I was anxious to get back home.

Tiny Bubbles

I was frustrated with the subway this morning. I needed to get down to Lafayette to teach an aerobics class and the B train wasn’t running. The D was 20 minutes late because of an issue with doors not closing and I waited on the N at Washington Square another 10 minutes due to construction. The subway on the weekends is always a little slower, but this was ridiculous.
My spirits were lifted however, on my ride home. The third stop in, a man and his son boarded the train with a giant bubble machine. They were selling bubbles to all the kids (and their parents) and bubbles of all sizes soon filled the car. The next stop a six piece Mexican band came and on and started playing music. They all had guitars and sang in harmony. Amidst the cascading bubbles, it was really quite a scene. I laughed out loud as the universe reminded me of why I love this city. No matter how irritated you are at the crowds or the subway construction, it’s nothing a few bubbles and a mariachi band won’t fix.

How Fun is THAT?

The other day I actually had this thought: “New York is so flippin’ fun, I don’t understand why everyone in the world doesn’t live here!” And then I took the subway to work and thought, “oh. I guess they do.”
I really don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun. There’s so much to see and do. In Seattle, it was all about routine. I had my job, my friends, and my classes. Here, it seems like every day is an opportunity for a new adventure.
There is an entire magazine, Time Out New York (TONY), dedicated to what you can do in the city that week. There are newsletters you can subscribe to – the Skint, Flavorpill – whose sole purpose are to list activities for that day. Every day they pop up in your in box like a gift. If you’re into art, there are hundreds of galleries and the top museums in the world. If you like theatre, there are readings, discussions, festivals and a little something referred to as the “Great White Way.” Dance? There are dozens of options every night to be a participant or a spectator. Opera? Poetry? Swedish Karaoke? It’s all happening tonight in New York.
In the last week, I’ve gone to see a French band, a fashion show at a thrift store Grand Opening (with an open bar no less), Patricia Clarkson read poetry in a neighborhood book store, Ben Stiller discuss his latest movie at the SOHO Apple Store, a musical premier near Herald Square with an audience of 70 that included Spike Lee, and Philip Seamore Hoffman at the Apple Theatre celebrating Tennessee Williams 99th birthday.
I’ve been to markets (flea, farmers, and flower) and classes (dance, yoga, and aerobics). I’ve enjoyed a gin and tonic at Pete’s, the oldest bar in New York, and a macaroon at Georgia’s on 89th (free of charge in celebration of National Macaroon Day).
For every show I see or activity I do, there are five more just as enticing. The challenge here isn’t finding stuff to do, but sorting through the options and choosing what to do. There’s a famous New York saying: “If you’re bored in New York, you ’re boring.” After six weeks here, I’m thinking if you’re bored in New York City, you’re probably dead.

New York Pride

I was on my way to the dog park in Riverside Saturday afternoon with Taetu. He ran into a black lab named Boris and I started talking to Boris’ owner, Anne. Anne was in her late 80’s and her frail frame was topped off by a startlingly white head of hair. She sat hunched on the park bench peering out onto the water through over-sized sunglasses. She started our conversation abruptly. “I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else in the world.”
I smiled back at her. I was wearing my purple “I Heart NY” t-shirt, so my affection towards out city was apparent. “New York is wonderful,” I replied benignly.
“No,” she said. “Right here. On this street.” She indicated Riverside behind her, “with this view.” Anne had moved into her fourth floor apartment on Riverside in 1969. “Back then,” she said, “this was a shady area of town.” There were different gangs on Amsterdam and Columbus and Anne generally didn’t venture out after dark. When she went out alone – to the grocery store for instance – she would clutch her “$15” in one hand and her mace in the other. “Did you ever have to use the mace,” I asked. “One time,” she replied, but didn’t elaborate.
Her love of her neighborhood was fierce. “I’ve never been to another city and thought, ‘I could live here.’ I couldn’t live anywhere but on this street.”
“My daughter lived in London for eight years,” she continued, looking me square in the eye. “London is fucking boring.” I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. I was not expecting the f-bomb from Grandma Anne. “The people there have no spark, no electricity. They lack the kind of….life…of people here.” The pride and love she had of her address is not unique to New York. I’m sure there are residents of Topeka, Kansas that feel Topeka is the best place on earth. In New York however, this sentiment is intense and nearly ubiquitous.
I passed a group of women in CP this morning and joined in briefly on their conversation as Taetu sniffed their toy poodle’s butt. One of the women was visiting New York for the first time, and the rest of the group was showing their shock at the idea.
“You love it,” one of the New Yorkers said to the first-time visitor. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. A fact. “I Heart NY” isn’t just a t-shirt slogan, it is the New York Creed.
New York pride permeates every nook and cranny of this city – from what’s on tap (Brooklyn Ale) to the New York-centric art in Herald Square. New Yorkers will dispense the fine attributes of the city at large to people outside the city, but within the borders of the East and Hudson rivers, that pride drills down to the neighborhood. A man last night actually said to me, “these are the best four blocks in New York.” Wow. The regional pride is now down to the block.
Jerry Seinfeld echoed these sentiments in a recent interview with Parade Magazine. Asked if he could live anywhere outside of New York he said: “Never in a million years. I couldn’t live four blocks from where I live now.”
Sometimes I’ll make the mistake of referencing “Manhattan” to friends at work and they’ll immediately correct me. “Actually SOHO,” they’ll say. Defining your locale in such general terms as Manhattan is like telling a Spaniard you’re from the Western Hemisphere – a little broad. In fact, if you told the Spaniard you were from New York City, they would likely respond with, “yes…but what borough?”
Neighborhoods like Chelsea and the Village actually have their own newspapers. Advertisers have caught onto this neighborhood pride as well. “Vitawater. The way Spanish Harlem rehydrates.”
People wear their metro stop on t-shirts. That’s specific. I mean, it’s not enough you live in the upper Westside – are we talking the 1 or the B train? It’s the difference of three blocks, but to New Yorkers, those three blocks can mean the world.

Chivalry Lives On

There are certain things that happen here I’m pretty sure are an “east coast” thing and not a “New York” thing. In general, New York defies east coast stereotypes. It’s what Austin is to Texas; a little oasis that goes against the tradition and culture of the greater geographic region.
The East Coast has a reputation of being rather stuffy, especially to people on the left coast. People regard east coasters as an aloof group that marinates in tradition (not unlike the olives in their collective martinis). This tradition is one of class, blue bloods, cardigan sweaters, headbands, pearls, swinging clubs and joining clubs, Ivy league educations, meals with more than one fork, season opera tickets…you get the idea. Think Connecticut or the window of Brooks Brothers – this, for better or worse, is the Northern East Coast stereotype.
But New York? It ain’t like that. Sure, you can go 40 miles due north or northwest and run smack into it, but New York City is too diverse to play that game. The East Coast may have a white bread reputation, but New York is multigrain.
One of the carry-overs though, has to be chivalry. I don’t think I’ve opened a door for myself in a public building. If there is a man in the vicinity, he does it for me. On the elevator, women are always the first ones on and the first ones off. If there’s a large group waiting for the elevator, women get on first…even if they weren’t there first!
A man got in front of me yesterday as we filed onto the subway. I didn’t think anything of it, but as the doors closed he turned to me and apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said. Out loud. It’s not like he elbowed me in the ribs. I mean, he was there first, yet he still felt compelled to apologize. He had breached social etiquette by not stepping aside and allowing me on first.
This is so weird to me. It’s a lovely gesture but it all seems rather old fashioned, especially for such a progressive city. Walk my street late on a cool evening and you’ll see woman after woman with men’s’ coats draped over their shoulders. Women are so accustomed to having doors opened for them, they often don’t even thank the man doing it. I suppose these little gestures have become invisible to people who have lived here a while, but it puts me on edge. I’m just saying – men in Portland or Sacramento or Seattle are getting on elevators in front of women every day – and no one’s feeling all that bad about it.
The other carry over is in professional dress. Now, this is based on personal experience only, I’m sure there are casual organizations and businesses in New York, but from what I’ve seen, women are expected to dress nice, and men even nicer.
I’m going to my first trade show next week for work and I have to wear (and this means, of course, purchase) a (gulp) suit. A suit? In 2010? Bill Gates and Howard Schultz are closing multi-billion dollar deals in designer jeans and mock turtlenecks, but I have to wear a suit. I’ve been dreading it for weeks. In Seattle, I was the most formal person in the office because I wore slacks instead of sweat pants.* Here, the standards are a little higher.
So I have to spend time and money to purchase something I’ll dread wearing. I guess it could be worse. I could be a man. Men in the office wear suits every day. Every. Day. They shave every morning and put on a tie, like Cary Grant or something. It’s amazing. There are actually eight shoe shining stands on my commute into work. I’ve counted. What’s more – there are often men having their shoes shined! I don’t think men in Seattle know what shoe polish is. But to be fair, it’s tough to shine converse sneakers.
This is a weird juxtaposition. New York is a city of trends. It leads the world in the latest fads, from film to fashion. Our gyms have karaoke spinning classes and DJs in the weight room. Our restaurants feature cuisine like Japanese-Cajun fusion. Our bars have nightly themes like ukulele burlesque – and yet amidst this perpetual hipness, there’s an element of old-fashioned charm thrown in. This town of trends is also a town where men have their shoes shined and still hold doors for ladies….on their way to trapeze cardio aerobics.

* I’m only slightly exaggerating. Hoodies were not uncommon at my previous place of employment.

New York State of Mind = Mimosa Buzz?

After an invigorating Broadway jazz dance class and my second failed attempt to find the Brooklyn flea*, I made my way to Nowhere Land, an area of the city not defined with a neighborhood. Manhattan is a city of neighborhoods – some large (Upper East Side, West Village), some small (Nolita, Stuyvesant Town), but all essential to the city. Neighborhoods add the charm to this mass of concrete. They make it liveable…and loveable.
I was heading to Nowhere Land in search of this week’s brunch and found a great spot. Vinyl is a 30-seat, bustling diner with a retro look and hipster soul. I knew I was in the right place when I walked into the delicious smells of coffee and sautéed onions and the delicious sounds of the Scissor Sisters. I sat at the bar and struck up a conversation with a gay couple to my left. One of them was enjoying a hearty plate of eggs Benedict, but the other just sipped on a mimosa. “No breakfast for you,” I asked him.
“This is my breakfast,” he said, “bottomless mimosa.”
This was it. I had found that legendary tale of Manhattan brunches – the bottomless mimosa. For $15 I got myself a Latin Scramble and a champagne flute that never went empty. As soon as I got 2/3rds of the way through my glass, one of the five waiters would come by with a pitcher to top it off. After 90 minutes of slurred conversation with my new BFFs (Brunch Friends For-now), I decided to take a little walk. The rain had mellowed to a Seattle drizzle and I needed the air. I walked to the Hudson and traversed up along the water. The air had been cleansed by the two days of intense run and it almost seemed…fresh. I enjoyed the horizon, something you don’t see much in Manhattan and turned back in towards the city at the meat packing district.
The meat packing district (MPD) is eight square blocks of hipness. The streets are cobblestone, the buildings brick, and the retail expensive. If you’re not a gallery, designer, or buzz-worthy restaurant, well….you’re not here. I was feeling the confidence of 3-ish mimosas and decided to venture into an art gallery. The gallery was showing Warhol-esque pop art featuring legendary personalities like Alf and Pee Wee Herman. In the center was an over-sized bucket of paint, lying on its side with a huge puddle of acrylic red “paint” spilled across the room. The 5-6 people milling about all wore black and peered at the art through thick-rimmed glasses.
It occurred to me that this was a quintessential New York experience – viewing art that created a buzz after catching one at brunch. Dance, art, brunch, and getting lost in Brooklyn….sounds like a great Sunday in New York.

* Side note: The Brooklyn street grid is an intricate maze of angled street and dead ends designed to confused and frustrate the average pedestrian. I’ve not stepped foot in that borough without becoming completely, utterly, and hopelessly lost.

A Chance of Rain

I know I’ve been writing a lot about the weather, but you have to remember, I’ve been living in a constant state of 55-overcast-skies-with-a-70%-chance-of-showers the past seven years. So here we are again, covering the subject of weather. It’s starting to feel like we’re polite co-workers on the elevator.
This weekend, we had a hurricane. I know what you’re thinking. “hm….I don’t remember hearing about a hurricane hitting Manhattan.” Okay. True enough. Perhaps it wasn’t technically a hurricane, but it sure felt like it.
People started talking about the coming rains on Thursday. “Big storm coming this weekend,” I heard more than once at the park. By Friday, people were already planning on how they were going to hunker down. “See you tomorrow,” I said to my friends on my way out of the park Friday morning. “Oh, maybe,” was the response. “You know, rain’s coming tomorrow.” Internally, I rolled my eyes. These were the same people who carried golf umbrellas in the mist – a little rain wasn’t going to faze this Seattleite.
Saturday morning, Taetu and I woke up to a downpour. The rain was heavy, but I had an umbrella and coat and Taetu seemed game, so we headed to Central Park. In the entire Great Lawn area, we only ran into two dogs. Luckily, one of them was Teatu’s friend Clifford, a 90 lb poodle with a huge afro and a goofy, delightful disposition. He and Taetu (all 15 pounds of him) get along great. After an hour, I was pretty wet, but nothing major. I still managed to get to the grocery store, laundry mat, bagel shop, and gym without feeling like this storm was living up to the hype.
When I got back from the gym I grabbed Taetu again to run a few more Aarons. We live on 85th and I had to go as far north as 97th. Those 12 blocks were some of the most harrowing of my life. The wind rushed down the narrow street in small waves and with the heavy, sideways rain, you could actually see the wind coming before it hit you. When it did hit, it was a powerful slap that made pedestrians leaning forward actually take a step back. The question wasn’t if your umbrella would get blown inside out, but how many times that would happen before the wind actually snapped it apart. Corner trash bins were filled with them.
The rain fell with such force it felt like standing under a showerhead – but much colder. When wind gusts would hit back to back, people on the street would actually scream out loud with shock from the force. In these few blocks I saw not one, but two umbrellas flying past, having been picked up by the power of the wind. Taetu, being very close to the ground, wasn’t at risk of flying away, but every few blocks, he would stop and look back at me wearily, clearly not enjoying himself. After our four stops, we were both over the rain. Taetu kept trying to sneak into restaurants and barber shops whose doors had blown open. When I got home, I cancelled plans to head to SOHO in favor of a trip to the local movie theatre a block away. Taetu fell asleep immediately, curling up in his dog bed by the heater.
The storm knocked out power in 400,000 homes in the area and was blamed on three deaths over the weekend. Edison called it the worst storm in decades. So the pre-storm buzz was warranted. And in six weeks, I’ve seen a “hurricane” (all-be-it an unofficial one), a weekend of spring-like beauty, and not one, but two major snow storms. This may be global warming or it may just be the transition of seasons. Whatever it is, here in New York, nothing is dull, not even the weather.

Becoming part of a LIVE studio audience

Here’s a bit of irony for you: Now that I live in New York, I don’t have a television, yet I have numerous opportunities to see national TV shows filmed. So while I can’t see these personalities on the boob tube, I can see them live…in the flesh! SNL, David Letterman, the View, and numerous daytime / late night shows in front of a live studio audience are all shot right here in the big apple. While it is a ton of fun to see these shows up close and personal, it is a giant, royal pain in the ass to go through the process. I found myself in this situation recently as I ventured out west of 9th to see the Daily Show.
The process starts online. You go to the show’s website to see when free tickets are available. The shows are generally sold out months in advance, with some shows, like the Colbert Report, booked out over a year. If, miracle of miracles, you see a date on their calendar where tickets are actually available, you register and are sent confirmation e-mail, much like you would when purchasing airline or concert tickets. The process is remarkably similar. There’s just one difference: these are not tickets. It looks like a ticket, it feels like a ticket, but it is not, in fact, a ticket. The e-mail is simply an indication you’ve been put on this list for that night. It absolutely does not guarantee you entry into the show.
Once you have your e-mail, the show will send you a few follow up reminders on the date and location. The reminders are upbeat and make it seem like they’re looking forward to your visit. But make no mistake, they have not promised you a thing. You are not guaranteed entry. They will slam that studio door in your pretty little face. It’s best not to be naive.
The day of the show, they’ll send you one final e-mail that begs and pleads with you to show up and says if you’re thinking of canceling, to let them know so someone else can get your “ticket.” Do not let this give you confidence. You do not have a ticket. You are not guaranteed entry.
These various e-mails give you detailed instructions. Here’s what mine said from the Daily Show:

WHAT YOU NEED TO DO:
Everyone must be 18 years and older. Please make sure you and your guests have City/State ID. If person(s) looks under age they will be carded if the person(s) in question does not have valid ID they will be asked off the general line and be denied entry. Our suggestion on arrival time is between 4:00pm and 4:30pm. Your guests may meet you on line until 4:30pm. Past 4:31pm they will not be allowed to meet you on line. Please understand other people have been waiting outside just like you and courtesy is a must. If your guest shows up past 4:31pm they will be asked to get on the back of our General line. Entry into the studio is on a first come first serve basis. You reserved your tickets with us but you will not be confirmed until we start giving out our studio tickets. Our doors open at 5:15pm. Show ends around 7:15pm. You may not obtain tickets for auctions, fundraisers, raffles or any kind of benefits through this method. Groups larger than four will be turned away at the door, even if they are separate reservations. The parking garage at 680 12th Avenue is offering all audience members a discounted parking price of $10.00. You will need to have your parking ticket stamped and dated by a Daily Show staff member. Parking is non-refundable and does not guarantee your entry to the taping.

So tickets have been reserved, but not confirmed, and they are very up-front that there will be some waiting involved.
Today, I decided not to chance it and showed up at 10 to 4:00. The line snaked around two city blocks when I arrived and my heart sank a little. I knew immediately my chances of actually getting into the studio weren’t great. I made my way to the back of the line with a cup of hot Starbucks and my latest book on New York. I wasn’t ready to give up hope quite yet, and things weren’t so bad. I got out of work early, was seeing a new area of Manhattan (not the most beautiful….I imagine Stewart’s there for the cheap rent), and the weather was divine.
Before long, I started talking to the three people behind me. They were around my age, relatively new to the city and all lived in Brooklyn. Making small talk made the time go faster, and before I knew it, it was 5:00. A man working for the Daily Show came out and started distributing passes to the crowd. When he got closer to us, the passes changed from yellow to white. When he got to me, he didn’t give me a pass, but did check off my name on his official clipboard and put not one, but two stars next to it.
He stepped back from the crowd and made a general announcement. “I’m very sorry ladies and gentlemen, but we have reached capacity. Please keep looking on the Daily Show website for future available dates. “
He concluded with (and this is verbatim): “Seriously. There’s no chance of you getting into tonight, so it’s best to be on your way.”
There were five of us who got stars by our names and he pulled aside next. “Okay,” he said, “since you were so close to getting in, we’re going to give you VIP tickets for a future taping. This means, you will not have to wait in line next time. Just e-mail the Daily Show with your information and they’ll give you a list of dates to choose from.”
The small group started scattering. I held back a moment collecting my things (I had made myself quite comfortable in my little area of line), and the man returned to me. “Listen,” he said, “we just got a call from Colbert and they’re a little short tonight, so if you really want to see a show today, you can head over there.” I’m not sure if he took pity on me because of my slight “bag lady” appearance or because I was the only one not in a large group, but I immediately lit up and almost skipped over to the Colbert Report – two short blocks away.
There weren’t nearly as many people milling about and I went up to one of two women in front holding clipboards. Clipboards apparently are very important in this process. They smiled at me and asked for my “ticket.”
“I actually don’t have a ticket,” I said, “but the man over at the Daily Show said there might be room for me tonight.”
“It’s just you,” asked the young woman. I get that a lot.
“Yep, just me.”
“I’m not making any promises,” she said, “but we are a little skimpy tonight, so you might be able to get in.” She checked my ID, wrote down my information and asked me to stand aside. I waited over 40 minutes against a gate. As I waited, more and more people showed up with confirmation e-mails and soon the line was rather long. There were also more people standing with me in standby, so as the sun started to set, I was feeling doubtful about my chances. If I didn’t get into this show, I would have waited over two hours for absolutely nothing. I shifted back and forth and tried to avoid the man standing next to me. He was from Phoenix and would not take off his sunglasses. He talked about how much he loved reality television and NASCAR (so we had a lot in common) and at one point said, “Hey – if we don’t get into this show, maybe we can get a drink somewhere.” Ugh.
So my line-waiting experience at the Colbert Report was not going well. At 6:15, the young woman who spoke to me earlier called my name. “Erin Gilbert?” she said above the small crowd. My heart leapt and I nearly ran up to her. “That’s me,” I said. She reached inside her satchel and pulled out a light blue laminated ticket, about the size of a postcard. Not a reservation mind you…a real life confirmation! I was thrilled! I didn’t have to talk to Mr. Phoenix anymore AND all my waiting was going to pay off.
I went to the back of yet another line (my third of the evening), but this was by far the best one. Not only was this line a guaranteed entry into a show, but when I walked down the hall, a man handed me a glass of wine! Things were definitely looking up.
After a few minutes, another man ushered a small group of us through a side door to an ugly waiting room (white walls, white doors, fluorescent light…your basic insane asylum look…) through thick black curtains and finally, into the studio. The studio was tiny – I bet it held less than 100 people. It was bathed in a red-ish, purple light and had a cozy feeling, even though the air conditioning was pumping. I didn’t even take off my jacket.
I was sat to the far left of the stage with a pretty good view of Colbert’s desk. I had a partially obstructed view of the interview table, though. No matter. I was just glad to be sitting after such a long time of waiting and to finally be there.
The man who led me in stood in front of the group and made some general announcements. There was no gum chewing, no talking during the shoot (but of course we could laugh), and absolutely, positively, no cell phone use. No pictures could be taken of any kind and all cell phones had to be turned off. They were serious about the cell phones!
A few minutes later, another man came up with a microphone and started talking to us like we were all friends. He was pretty funny, asking people where they were from and what they did, and soon I realized what he was doing: He was warming up the crowd. He went on for about 20 minutes and introduced Stephen Colbert, who looks completely different in person.
Just kidding.
He looks exactly the same. The crowd had the chance to ask him questions, but I couldn’t think of any. Stephen was warm and genuine and immediately likeable. He had none of the arrogance that’s laid on so thick once the cameras roll. He chatted with us much like the other comedian and was extremely relaxed. His hands stayed in his pockets most of the time and his retorts were as smooth as a politician’s.
When he left the stage, he announced we were about to start the show and thanked us for coming.
The man immediately over my left shoulder kicked things off, counting down in his booming voice. Suddenly, the theme music pumped through the studio and I had my second wave of excitement. Remember, I haven’t had a TV in six weeks. I was actually looking forward to watching the program.
The show is shot in real time. The night I was there, there were no second takes or flubs. Stephen was smooth, professional, and animated. In the time where there are commercial breaks, hair and make-up people come out to touch him up. He also frequently checks in with the audience during the breaks, making sure we’re still excited and pumped up.
The entire shoot took 30 minutes and after taping, he was gone and a team of interns were shuffling us out of the studio the same way they shuffled us in. Yes, it was a lot to go through for 30 minutes of entertainment, but it was a nice New York experience. I’m looking forward to my VIP taping in July with John Stewart – all the fun with none of the hassle. That’s more my style.
In the meantime, I think I’ll stick to entertainment that has a confirmation ticket, not just a reservation. I like doing things I can depend on.

We've been SPRUNG!

On my way to the dog park, I was waiting for the light to change and a woman sided up next to me. “I woke up this morning,” she said unprovoked, “went outside and thought ‘thank GOD..it’s SPRING!” My reaction was one of complete agreement. “It’s awesome,” I replied.
It was so warm today I wanted to weep with gratitude. The bright blue sky was like a cozy hug. People were downright giddy. Elderly men walked down the street smiling for no reason, strangers slapped each other on the back, people laughed out loud. I was sitting in a restaurant in the lower east side having brunch (see “best deals in the city” for more on that), and three men came in carrying bright orange frisbies. It’s like the winter thaw took 20 years off the average New Yorker. We’re all kids again.
At long last, it seems like spring has arrived in New York. Break out the sunglasses and hang up those sleeping bag coats. It’s time to celebrate…outside.

I'm not a Native, but I play one on TV

Man, today in spin class I felt too cool for school. I was warming up next to this guy before class began and we started chatting. He just moved here from Georgia and asked me about the neighborhood and the city in general. I found myself recommending areas to visit, restaurants, other neighborhoods, and bike paths – and even being able to tell him the subway lines to get there. I felt like a real New Yorker.
That’s the thing about this city – people are constantly moving in. So no matter how new you are to New York, you’re an expert in the eyes of someone even newer. I’m confident Alex, the guy from spin class, thinks I’m an expert on the city. He doesn’t need to know I still head north instead of south and this morning I thought Broadway was west of 8th. That can be our little secret.

A Glorious Place to Live

47% of New Yorkers speak a language other than English at home. There are more Irish here than Dublin. More Jewish here than Tel Aviv. It is the most multi-cultural city in the entire world. It’s the main reason the UN is based here.
Add to that the fact that there are over 8 million of us living in 22 square miles and another 12 million commuting in and out of the city and what you get is an atmosphere dense with diversity. Every time I step outside my door, I hear different languages. I am in constant contact with people of different background, histories and ethnicities. The idea of America as a melting pot started and continues to thrive here. What this type of complexity produces is a culture of “live-and-let-live.” Some might say people here are simply jaded, but I prefer to think of it as complete and utter acceptance. If you’re a bald man who chooses to dress in drag, no one will look at you twice. An albino with a red afro? Please. I saw him on the Q last week. Here’s a short list people I saw the last three days that might cause a second look anywhere but New York:
1. A bearded man in business suit….and pink leg warmers.
2. A man with a dragon tattoo….on his face.
3. A woman in thigh high boots and a teddy. That’s it. On second thought, she may have been working….
They were able to walk down the street, ride the subway, hail a cab…and not only were they not harassed, no one else really seemed to notice them.
When my mom was here and we spent a week frantically trying to furnish my apartment, she found herself carrying a floor lamp eight blocks up Broadway. “Anywhere else, I would feel conspicuous,” she said. “But in New York, no one bats an eye.” In this city, you are constantly bombarded with people of all different shapes, looks, cultures, and backgrounds. They are on top of you all the time. There simply isn’t the room or time for judgment.
In other areas of the country – Boulder, CO even Seattle, WA, people’s look and language is rather consistent. Wander into a random Portland bar and you’ll see so many Horne-rimmed glasses and tight jeans, you’ll wonder if you’re at a Moby look-alike convention. It’s easy to stand out in a place like Portland (if you wear contacts, for instance). In New York, it’s nearly impossible.
I was telling this to my friend Helen at work, and remarked on how much I loved the fact that people didn’t react to idiosyncrasies the way they did elsewhere. “Everyone always talks about that,” she said, “but I think they give us too much credit.”
“You just haven’t been out of New York in a while,” I replied. “The minute someone commented on your outfit or the fact you have a ‘boy haircut’ you’d get completely annoyed.”
“You’re right,” she said. “If a stranger gave me a weird look or made a comment on something I was wearing or saying, I would feel completely affronted. What business is it of theirs?”
“Exactly,” I said. “But New York is very special in that respect.”
New York is one of the most tolerant cities in the country because it has to be. Essayist EB White said it was essential. Without this acceptance, “it would explode in a radioactive cloud of hate and rancor and bigotry.” So here New York sits, home of the world’s largest synagogue and the world’s largest Protestant Church. Home of bald drag queens and Fox News. The harmony in which such diversity exists is quite special, and as someone who deeply values this idea, it makes New York a glorious place to live….and let live.